Chapter 17
?
She hits now.
Damion
“Call me by my name,” I say, shuffling through Halloween costumes made of, I assume, recycled garbage. The fabrics my fingers are colliding with cause a revolt inside my skin.
Beet red—a shade Mirabelle hasn’t stopped being in my presence since I told her I wanted to kiss her three days ago—she hisses, “No.”
Lowering myself to her ear, I say, “Damion.”
She swats me. Because she does that. Apparently unfiltered Mirabelle hits.
I am living for it.
“No. Get away from me.”
This whole situation is terrifying, a real gamble.
I only have until February to turn her disgust into something else, lest she leave me forever.
I keep trying to convince myself that this option was the best one, because if I’m not honest with her, we risk collapsing like the third-act in a cheap Hallmark film.
This way, she gets all my depraved honesty, and I get the same from her—in both words and actions. No muting. No censoring.
She gets my truth, and I get to see who she really is at a depth that will allow me to make an educated decision on whether or not I’d like to marry her, assuming she does get past this period wherein she seems quite willing to castrate me.
While I’m mulling about in my anxiety, a store associate approaches us. “Anything I can help the happy couple find?” she asks.
Out for blood, sweet and cute little Mirabelle snaps, “We’re not dating!”
I brace my hand on her shoulder, in case she tries to bite the poor associate, and say, “No, thanks. We’re just looking.”
“R-right. Well, let me know if you need anything. I’ll just be…” She points. Far, far away. “Over there.”
This is going…great.
“Precious,” I say, “it’s not nice to snap at service workers.”
Mirabelle pales, then she covers her face with her hands. “Ugh. I’m not nice, Mr. Anders.”
“Damion.”
She square punches me in the arm and seethes. “I’m going to go apologize.”
I rub my arm, because a woman who cooks and cleans all day has a marvelous left hook. “Okay.”
“You’re going to stay here.”
I deflate. “But I want to hear what insults you use to describe me when you explain why you’re so testy this lovely afternoon.”
Her nostrils flare.
I dip my head, hiding my smile. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll be good and stay put.”
Her nose wrinkles. “Do not call me ma’am.
” She spins on her heel before I can use that sweet little comment to make an argument on why I’d like for her to stop calling me sir, but she’s gone too fast. It is such a good thing we brought my car, because I have a feeling she’d try and make a break for it if she had the keys.
Sighing merrily, I watch her. As it turns out, I…
am deeply in love. Still. Continuously. I really like her.
She’s a little rabid when she’s not hiding behind what she thinks other people expect from her, but it’s nice; it makes it feel like she won’t break in my hands.
For all her soft and reserved edges, she’s strong, determined, and stubborn.
I am terrified I’ll mess up, but I am now less concerned I’ll do something wrong. If I get too close and she doesn’t want me to, she will hit me. The end.
There’s a weird sort of peace in that—in knowing that even though she’s a petite woman and I’m a large man, she’s not going to let me pressure her accidentally into anything she’s not comfortable with.
She returns, and I ask, “Did you swear when you described me?”
Her eyes roll. “No. Swearing is bad.”
“Isn’t hitting also bad?”
She glares at me, lip jutted.
Tempting.
Since I’m being honest and all, I reach for her chin, tip that pouting lip up, and lean.
She shoves me into the rustling plasticky hanging clothes. Breaths hard, she watches me as I regain the step I lost to her violence and dust off my shirt. Her shoulders bunch, and her fingers close. “S-sorry. You… We’re in public. You were joking. That was a bit, not an actual…”
“I wasn’t joking. Not at all.”
Eyes large, she stares, then sucks in a breath. Placing her arms at her sides, she whispers a concerning, “I think I need a taser…”
I think I needed more terms and conditions outlined in our honesty agreement. Particularly, no zapping me with a taser.
Given that she’s yet to have a taser, I get back on task and say, “Damion.”
“We are not friends,” she hisses, turning. “And I’m done here. I hate everything.”
Likewise.
Trailing after her out of the store, I revel in the way the sun plays with her hair as an autumn breeze coaxes it into a sway. Long. Pretty. Golden brown.
I wish to bury my fist in it until her hair scarf loosens and slips from the crown of her head.
While I’m stuck in the daydream, she sinks into the passenger seat of my SUV and buries her head in her hands.
I crank the engine and get some heat started. “You okay?”
“No.”
“Anything I can do?”
“Disappear.”
Ouch.
I blow out a breath. “I don’t think that’s the best idea. I’m not sure you can reach the pedals of this vehicle. You’d be stranded here, outside a Spirit Halloween until the spirits abandon the poor building, forever.”
Curling up on the seat, tucking her skirt perfectly around her legs, she puts her back toward me and mutters, “Why do you have a sense of humor now?”
“Haven’t I always?”
She hugs her legs. “No, you haven’t.”
Maybe it was harder for her to tell I was joking when I was also simultaneously trying not to let on how badly I want to bury my fists in her hair and kiss her until her lips are raw and her lungs are burning.
I fix a lock of her hair against her back, and she shudders, peering—red faced—at me over her shoulder.
“You’re so—” I do a bad thing and swear, “—beautiful.”
Her blue eyes widen, then she collapses in on herself and whimpers.
Over these past few gloriously terrifying days, I have noticed something.
Mirabelle has told me to go away and shut up and disappear and stop it. But she hasn’t once said to stop touching her.
Stop messing with her. Stop teasing her. Stop trying to get her to say my name. Sure.
But not a single don’t touch me.
Furthermore, she only pulls away—or pushes—when it looks like I’m trying to kiss her.
This is a dangerous game to play, but I can’t stop myself from indulging in the hope each passing round incites.
Curling my finger, I run my knuckle along the column of her neck. “Where would you like to go now, Mirabelle?”
Frail, she says, “Home.”
“You don’t have a costume yet.”
“I’ll just be passing out candy with my book club. I don’t need one.”
“I’d like to see you in one.”
She glares at me over her shoulder again, completely ignoring the way I’ve left my hand to rest against her shoulder. “All the more reason.”
Ouch.
I smile, and her eyes widen again, but this time they don’t pull away.
“I could take you to a bridal store,” I say.
Her lips part.
“You could get a wedding gown. We could rip it up. Splatter it with red paint.”
Her head shakes. “Absolutely not. Wedding gowns are so expensive.”
“I think the opportunity to see you in one, no matter how distressed it is, is worth the cost.”
“No,” she says.
I let my thumb play along her soft jaw. “How about a regular gown, then? There should be tiaras. You could be a princess.”
Her breath stutters. “I could wear my plain brown dress and my plainest apron and be Cinderella, before the fairy godmother gets to me and gives all my little animal friends identity crises.”
“I know a designer who’d be willing to rush order a way to have that outfit turn into a ballgown when you spin.”
Her eyes narrow with a sharpness that seems to relay of course you do. She mutters, “You’re not coming, right?”
“To pass out candy, to kids?”
She nods.
“I’d like to. I’ve never had access to a home that makes it a logical event before.”
Disgust and protest explode on her face.
“I can be in a mask,” I remind her. “No hope that pictures would do anyone any good if I’m in a full-face mask.”
Her head shakes.
“I’d fund so much candy. Think of the children.”
She abruptly stops, and thinks of the children. Then she gasps and states, “You’re manipulating me!”
“Yes, I am.”
“That’s dishonest!”
“Is it? I think it’s quite honest for a billionaire to openly manipulate someone into doing his bidding. I am, quite clearly, not being very discreet about it.”
She ponders that for a minute, then sinks in on herself. “You’ll be in a mask?”
“I have a collection of superhero costumes. You can pick your favorite for me.”
Momentarily seeming to forget that her goal isn’t exactly to like me back, she says, “Do you have Spider-man? Spider-man’s my favorite.”
“I have Spider-man.” And the equipment in my gym…to hang upside down. In case she wants that. For any reason.
A tiny smile comes to her lips, and my heart trips over the sight.
Unraveling herself, she sits properly in the seat to put her belt on. “We need to go get candy.” She lays her hands prettily in her lap.
“What about your costume?” I ask as I pull my hand away from her and guide the vehicle out of the parking lot.
“I’ll just be Cinderella, pre-magic. The kids won’t care about anything but the candy.”
The hair on her neck prickles when I chuckle. “Are we going to be the full-size candy bar house?”
“Mr. Anders—”
“—Damion—”
She sighs. “Are you or are you not a billionaire?”
“Yes, ma’am. I understand. Full-size diabetes for kids it is.”